


A Swelling of the Ground

by cuniculusmolestus



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Crying, Domestic Will Graham/Hannibal Lecter, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Eventual Smut, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Hannibal Lecter Loves Will Graham, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Murder Husbands, Post-Episode: s03e13 The Wrath of the Lamb, Post-Fall (Hannibal), Post-Season/Series 03, Slow Burn, Smitten Hannibal Lecter, Supernatural Elements, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Will Graham is PISSED
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-08
Updated: 2018-09-08
Packaged: 2019-07-07 11:10:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15907089
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuniculusmolestus/pseuds/cuniculusmolestus
Summary: “Maybe a place was made for me, Will, but it certainly wasn’t here, and that’s okay,” she tells him reassuringly, but it is no consolation, not even a little. “It’s too late for me, but it’s not too late for you.”Or: the one where they almost die, Hannibal is a changed man (kinda), Will is too pissed to believe it, and Abigail is dead tired of their shit. Literally.





	A Swelling of the Ground

_“Because I could not stop for Death -_

_He kindly stopped for me -_

_The Carriage held but just Ourselves -_

_And Immorality.”_

\- Emily Dickinson 

**»»————————————««**

Waking up in the morning, there is a moment when you are caught between your dreams and the real world; a moment when you forget who you are and everything that awaits you outside of your bedroom door. It seldom lasts more than a few seconds before reality washes over you and fills your lungs to capacity, creating a sensation similar to drowning.

This is how Will Graham woke up every morning in the Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane, thinking he was back home in Wolf Trap before discerning the grimy cement walls and uncomfortable cot; this is also how he woke up in the hospital with a smile carved into his stomach after Hannibal, broken heart in tow, gutted Will and slit their surrogate daughter’s throat; and finally, this is how he has woken up today.

Will slowly opens his eyes, head turned upward toward the ceiling. At first glance, with the morning sunlight being cast upon the white surface, it almost looks like how he imagines heaven, and Will lets out a long sigh, his body feeling lighter than air. He can’t remember a time he has felt so well rested, like he has slept for months. 

He turns over on his side expecting to see Molly sleeping soundly next to him, absentmindedly thinking about what to make her and Walter for breakfast and where he will take the dogs on their daily walk. But instead he is met with a completely different reality; a reality that fills his lungs so quickly and violently that it feels like he is truly drowning—a sensation so familiar that he begins to remember everything, gory details rising in his throat like bile.

Slaying the Dragon. Plunging into the ocean. Water _everywhere_. Being hauled onto a boat. Tender hands attending to his wounds. Dreamless sleeps.

And finally, Hannibal.

_This is all I ever wanted for you, Will. For both of us._

Sleeping next to him is none other than the Chesapeake Ripper himself, fresh out of the jail he was supposed to live and eventually die in. The most dangerous man in America, possibly the world. And yet here he is, the doctor who must have saved his life despite Will trying to kill them. Will’s chest becomes uncomfortably tight and he has no idea if it is due to his injuries or just the sight of Hannibal in such an unfamiliar state—vulnerable, open, and unbearably _human_.

_It’s beautiful._

Hannibal is sleeping on his side so he positioned facing Will, covers and blankets underneath his body as though he fell asleep accidentally. The sight of Hannibal in boxers and a t-shirt, rather than his usual immaculate suit, takes Will by surprise, realizing that he has never seen Hannibal in any other way (other than his prison jumpsuit, that is, but he would rather not think about that, for more reasons than one). His back is facing the large windows of the bedroom, and the morning light beats down through the glass, projecting a golden-silvery lining around his slight silhouette.

As peaceful as he may look in this moment, he also appears worse for wear. Bulging underneath his shirt is what Will assumes to be a bandage wrapped around his torso. The image of Hannibal attending to his own bullet wound all alone enters Will's mind. He thinks about reaching out to touch him and rouse him from his sleep, hoping that hearing his voice will remind him of the Hannibal he both hates and can’t live without, and banish this version of Hannibal who he doesn’t recognize—the one who left his person suit behind in the Atlantic, allowing it to drift off and become lost on him and the world, forever.

Will wonders to himself how long he has been asleep, how many nights Hannibal stayed awake wondering if Will would wake up. By some invisible force, he proceeds to bring out his hand from under the covers and rest it closer to where Hannibal is lying, as though the answers to all his questions are written on his flesh. 

“Oh good!” a soft, feminine voice says from the doorway, pulling Will’s attention away from Hannibal and forcing his hand to retreat back to his side of the bed. “You’re awake. We were starting to become worried.”

Startled by the presence of an unexpected third party, Will whips his body around to see who just addressed him, ignoring the sharp ache in his bones as he does so. His initial thought was that Chiyoh might be staying with them, helping take care of Hannibal while Hannibal takes care of him. Oh, how wrong he was. 

“Abigail?” Will whispers unbelievably, voice raspy from his prolonged sleep.

Leaning against the doorframe is indeed Abigail Hobbs, wearing her pyjamas and holding a mug of what smells like fresh coffee. Years have passed since her untimely death but somehow she looks more grown up than ever, so much so that tears start to pool in Will’s eyes at the mere sight of her. The scar on her neck has somehow disappeared and it occurs to Will that he has never seen her without it. She looks like a regular teenager, something she always deserved but never received.

'I could have given that to her, if I only left with Hannibal when I had the chance,' Will thinks sadly to himself, the overwhelming hurt in his chest surpassing all the other pain in his body.

“You’ve been asleep for nearly two weeks now,” Abigail tells him casually, removing herself from the doorframe and coming to sit next to Will on the bed, placing the mug in her lap. Hannibal doesn’t stir at the sound of her arrival, not even sensing the dip in the mattress when she sits. Will has a sick feeling as to why that is, and it has little to do with Hannibal being a deep sleeper.

“What are you doing here, Abigail?” he asks her in a hushed voice, scared to speak too loud and wake up Hannibal, but certainly more scared of what her response might be.

Abigail tilts her head to the side and looks at Will with sad eyes. “Will,” she begins to explain, lowering her voice to match his, “I have no idea.”

For the next few seconds, they just look at each other, basking in their mutual confusion. Their past perils penetrate the happiness of them meeting once again; a miraculous event tainted with memories of every ordeal they have been through together. Yet without the scar on her neck, the image of her gruesome death lessens in Will’s mind. This is a small victory, as blood and gore and tears are quickly replaced with an image of something much more painful: now.

Will and Hannibal waking up in the morning in their shared bed, the earlier riser watching the other in a peaceful slumber. Their daughter, Abigail, coming to wake them up if they slept for too long. She brings them coffee and sits at their bedside as they exchange stories about the dreams they had the night before. Will’s dreams are calm these days, bordering on the line of happy. Abigail tells Hannibal that she is ready for breakfast. It goes without saying that without him, Will and Abigail would be stuck eating burnt toast every morning. She runs out of the room and down the stairs to set the table, socks muffling her steps as she goes. Once Will and Hannibal can hear her rummaging around in the kitchen, they reach for each other.

Until now, he only could have imagined this life. Perhaps, once, he might have even wanted it. But not anymore, as Hannibal made sure it would not become reality. Somehow he hates Hannibal more than he ever has, in this very moment, and all he is doing is sleeping. Even still, there is a part of him that will always blame himself. 

Not being able to bear looking at her anymore, Will shuts his eyes and tears gradually begin to stream down his face and neck. Real or not, she is here in some sort of manifestation, and it is enough to confirm what Will has always known but never accepted: betraying Hannibal was the worst decision he has ever made in his life.

Her hand reaches out to touch his own. “I know what you’re thinking,” Abigail says softly, doing her best to comfort him but to no avail. “The last time we said goodbye you told me that a place was made for me here.”

Her gentle words cause even more tears to fall from his eyes, and Will turns his head away in guilt. She grips his hand tighter, silently trying to get him to look at her again, but he can’t manage it.

He settles on looking out the window as he tries to compose himself, watching as dawn makes love to the horizon. He examines the crisp blue sky, the sun beginning her daily journey from the east to the west, the white clouds drifting above the earth only to disappear into the brisk morning air. Will begins to picture a world beyond this one, one with no pain or suffering, where the soul can finally rest and shed its past wounds like old skin. Abigail is too good for this infinite regress of tormented existence. She doesn’t belong here. What she needs is to forget about every tragedy she endured in her short life, and rid herself of Will and Hannibal for good.

But there is simply no getting rid of Hannibal. No matter if you are of this world or the next, he will always bring you back to him, like metal to a magnet. And when you do inevitably return, it’s like coming home; it may be a home built from death and bones, but it is a home, nonetheless. When he so graciously offers you his hand, you take it, no questions asked. You will always risk your life for a chance to be held in his arms. An endless game of Russian Roulette with broken hearts instead of bullets.

“Maybe a place _was_ made for me, Will, but it certainly wasn’t here, and that’s okay,” she tells him reassuringly, but it is no consolation, not even a little. “It’s too late for me, but it’s not too late for you.”

When Will finally turns to look at her she is gone. He looks down at his hands where hers were only a moment ago, stretching and curling his fingers in disbelief. Now that she has vanished Will lets himself cry a little more, her words left ringing in his head. The smell of coffee still lingers in the air. 

He sits there for what seems like forever, sobbing quietly and torturing himself with twisted thoughts. Will has a lot of blood on his hands, but Abigail’s blood has sunk deep into his skin, mixing with his own and running through his veins like poison. 

Soon enough, after what might be years or minutes, Hannibal begins to stir and Will instantly panics, not wanting to explain to Hannibal what has him so upset. He quickly wipes the tears away from his eyes the best he can and moves from his sitting position so his head is resting on his pillow. He doesn’t know whether he should feign sleep or keep his eyes open as they are, but he quickly chooses the latter, turning to face the other man.

When Hannibal opens his eyes he is met with the sight of Will, awake and looking back at him with his beautiful blue eyes. A wave of relief washes over him, eternally grateful to see Will alive and moving rather than in his perpetual comatose state.

“Hello, Doctor Lecter,” Will whispers across the bed. 

Hannibal smiles back at him. “Hello Will.”

The page turns.

**»»————————————««**

The more awake Will becomes, the more he can't believe it. For the entire day he has been replaying the evening in question over and over again in his mind, but it always fails to make sense. It presents itself so clearly, or some parts do, anyway—his head resting gently against Hannibal’s heaving chest, how they failed to let go of each other as they plummeted into cold and unrelenting waters, and the overwhelming sense of peace that washed over both of them while being consumed by the restless tide. 

And they lived.

Will’s scattered thoughts move back and forth in his brain like water hitting land, deciding whether their miraculous survival is a punishment or a blessing. Either way, whatever God might rule the skies has a divine plan unbeknownst to all, including (and especially) him. Or perhaps this is somehow all Hannibal’s plan, and he wasn’t ready to set Will off into the universe just yet. How could he? Not when they have the rest of their lives ahead of them. That would explain why Hannibal held onto him as they fell to what was supposed to be their rightful deaths. It simply wasn’t meant to be.

Which brings him to the present. These are beginning chapters of his and Hannibal’s story, or at least that is how Hannibal surely sees it. It’s clear to him that everything that came before was simply a matter of setting the stage. Everything—every life lost, every miserable tale—was leading up to this moment in time. A prologue for the ages, written and signed in blood.

Where to begin? Well, that’s another thing Will can’t quite seem to figure out. His frustration and anger are clouding his mind like fog. The fact that it is now dinner time and he and Hannibal haven't spoken two words to each other only aggravates him further. 

Hannibal kept his distance most of the day, staying in the kitchen while Will stayed in bed, reading and thinking. 30 minutes ago, Hannibal came and wordlessly helped Will out of bed and into the dining room, placing a blanket over his shoulders while he went to fetch dinner. 

He comes back with two bowls in his hands, steam rising from the tops. Will becomes confused when Hannibal places Will's soup down in front of him and proceeds to sit beside him on the same side of the table. But when Hannibal, ignoring his own bowl, picks up a spoon full of soup and brings it to Will's lips, he becomes furious. 

"No," Will says through gritted teeth, staring Hannibal down. The doctor appears taken aback, like he has just been slapped. 

"Will, you're too weak—" Hannibal starts to protest, but Will cuts him off. 

"I don't need you to take care of me anymore," he snaps. "In fact, I don't need you at all." 

Will knows it's petty. His words were meant to hurt, and apparently they had their desired effect. Hannibal lowers his eyes and places the spoon back into Will's bowl with a small clang. He stands up silently and walks over to the other side of the table and takes a seat. He doesn't even touch his food. 

"Are you mad at me?" Hannibal asks softly, after ten miserable minutes of sitting in tense silence. 

"Yes," Will responds curtly.  

Hannibal's eyebrows shoot up, but he refuses to look at Will. "May I ask why?" 

The silence resumes, and the question hangs in the air, leftover with the million things they need to say to each other.

“Where did you take me, Hannibal?” Will demands to know. 

Hannibal turns his head to the left and glances out of the window parallel to the end of the table. “Buenos Aires,” he tells Will in a gentle tone, who then also turns his attention to the window.

South America, Will considers to himself. The illuminated city is polluting the night sky, banishing the stars to a lonely state of solitude, and replacing Mother Nature with her bastard son, Mankind. The city appears tiny from where they currently sit, confirming Will’s suspicions that Hannibal’s idea of a safe house is the penthouse suite in one of the tallest, most affluent buildings in the entire continent, no doubt.

Between the city lights seeping into the apartment and the warm glare radiating from the candles on the table, their battered faces are dripping in gold. Will shuts his eyes, a sense of solace washing over him. All at once, but only for a split second, Will's anger dissipates. Despite everything between them, their unforgivable past, Will can't deny the peace he feels. It disturbs him. The most unfair of paradoxes. 

His eyes fly open when he realizes that his thoughts are becoming softer, that the fog in his mind is lifting to reveal his true, repressed desires. He finds Abigail sitting next to him.

“Stop panicking, Will,” she says, staring at him intently. “What is so terrible about wanting a life with Hannibal?”

Will turns his head slowly to face Hannibal—as though he is a predator avoiding scaring off his meek prey—wanting to know if he could see Abigail, too. The answer, apparently, is no. Hannibal doesn’t move a muscle, his gaze still focused sadly on the view from the dining room window. 

A sinking feeling enters Will's stomach. He thought he was past hallucinations. Never again did he want to be in a place in life where he doubts reality as it appears to be. Yet here he is, once again. 

Will turns his attention back to Abigail, who looks offended on Hannibal’s behalf. Will wants to open his mouth, but he can’t in fear of freaking out the other man, who would think Will insane. Noticing the conversation barrier, Abigail shuts her eyes as tight as she can, as if she is focusing on something, and soon enough a timer in the kitchen goes off. Hannibal, as if in a trance, gets up from the table and walks through the doors to the next room.

Will has many questions, but refrains from asking in fear of angering Abigail even more by going off topic.

“I don’t want a life with Hannibal. Neither does he. He couldn't even stand to be in the same room with me today,” Will retorts under his breath.

“Do you really think Hannibal isn’t speaking to you because he doesn’t want you here?” Abigail asks rhetorically, shaking her head hopelessly in disappointment. “He’s scared, Will. Scared of saying the wrong thing, doing the wrong thing. Scared of you leaving him a—” she stops abruptly.

“Again,” Will finishes the sentence for her. “Scared of me leaving him, _again_.”

She stares daggers at him, obviously not feeling too guilty about shaming Will for abandoning Hannibal, for leaving him in jail to rot while he played house.

“He deserves to be alone, Abigail,” Will tells her gravely. “You should know that better than anyone.”

Abigail scoffs. “You’re projecting, Will. You think _you_ deserve to be alone.”

Her words hang in heavy silence. Will turns away from her and crosses his arms across his chest, causing his blanket to slip slightly off his shoulders.

“He’s evil.”

“Go ahead and keep telling yourself that, as if demonizing him might appease your own guilt. He does bad things, but he isn’t _evil_ , Will. Could an evil man—” she stops abruptly again, but this time Will doesn’t know what she wanted to say.

“Could an evil man do what, Abigail?” Will asks in a serious tone. Her eyes aren’t there to meet his own when he finally turns back to look at her.

Suddenly, they can both hear Hannibal coming back into the dining room. Anger forgotten, Will becomes panicked again, as their conversation is nowhere near completion. There are so many things still unsaid.

Abigail leans forward and presses a kiss to Will’s forehead. He can hear her voice ringing through his head.

_Could an evil man do this?_

Abigail vanishes and Will faints.

**»»————————————««**

Will opens his eyes and the dining room is nowhere to be found. The room is now extremely tight and dark, furnished with only a queen-size bed that takes up majority of the small space. The only light is coming from the crack under a door at the foot of the bed. Frantically looking around, Will slowly realizes that he has been here before, but he can’t remember much more than that. His senses are flooded with the salty smell of fresh seawater and the room softly rocks from side to side. 

The boat.

The light seeping into the cramped room is enough to reveal the outline of a body lying in the middle of the bed, curled up and shaking. Will has been in this position enough in his life to know that he is looking at himself—or, at least his past self.Once his eyes adjust to the darkened environment he is able to make out more details. Past Will is wearing only a pair of boxer shorts, slightly too big on his waist, which tells him they are not his own. The stab wound on his cheek is stitched up and there is a bandage wrapped around his shoulder. On his skin are the beginnings of the terrible bruises left over from hitting the water.

In sum, he has looked better.

As he stands there examining his beaten body, he begins to empathize with his past self, and his present body experiences sharp phantom pains. Just when he thinks things couldn’t be more terrible for the man on the bed, things take a turn for the worst. Past Will’s body goes from slight shaking to violent tremors, and he begins to whimper in his sleep. Will freezes in shock when he realizes that Past Will is beginning to come back to consciousness, witnessing firsthand his halfhearted attempts to raise his head off the bed.

‘I woke up?’ he asks himself silently. In his mind the story was simple: he hit the water, fell unconscious almost immediately, and woke up only once, which was a few hours ago. Apparently, he was mistaken. This night has been completely lost on him, until now. 

Past Will’s whimpers grow increasingly louder, and he finally manages to sit up on his side and balance himself on his elbow. When the whimpers turn into an alarming coughing fit, the door supplying the room’s light slides open. Out walks Hannibal—or, Hannibal from the past.

Will’s eyes grow wide at the sight of him. He is naked except for underwear matching Past Will’s and a thick bandage wrapped around his stomach. The smell of rubbing alcohol emanates off his body, much like the stench of a terrible cologne. It occurs to Will that Past Hannibal just finished attending to his own wound, and the image of the older man reaching into his own flesh to try and retrieve the bullet enters his mind again, much like it did this morning. There is blood on the freshly wrapped bandage, meaning Past Hannibal probably was in too much pain to finish the job properly.

Or maybe he heard Will in distress and rushed the job. 

This conclusion seems absurd until he watches the way Past Hannibal rushes to Past Will’s aid, placing himself at his bedside, alert and ready for whatever comes. It seems both men know exactly what is coming, indicating to Will that this has been a very long night for both of them. Past Hannibal reaches down by the side of the bed, retrieves a bowl, and holds it a fraction under Past Will’s face. Instantly,as if on cue, the younger man begins to vomit what looks like water and blood. In-between his retching are anguished sobs, accompanied by fat tears streaming down his face.

Will’s cheeks become flushed, embarrassed at the sight of himself in such a state. He knows Hannibal is a doctor, but he also knows that nobody ever _wants_ to watch another person vomit, let alone assist them in doing so. Plus, he can’t imagine a situation where a grown adult has both vomited and cried while under the doctor’s care.

‘Why did Abigail send me here?’ Will thinks to himself, annoyed at the situation.

He watches Past Will vomit for another minute or so, and it is only in the last few seconds that he notices Past Hannibal’s hand rubbing circles into his naked back. Will’s breath catches in his throat at the sight, unsure of what to make of such a thing.

Once the vomiting subsides, and only the crying remains, Past Hannibal removes the bowl and begins to leave in the direction of the bathroom. Past Will makes a desperate attempt to protest when he leaves the bed, but Hannibal simply shushes him and tells him he will be back in a moment. True to his word, Past Hannibal promptly returns from the bathroom with the freshly cleaned bowl and a damp towel. He gently eases Past Will back down on the bed and begins to clean his face and dab his sweaty forehead. They look at each other the whole time, Past Will’s tears surely clouding his vision. Past Hannibal doesn’t look mad or annoyed, like Will would expect after what he had done. In fact, he looks content, even pleased.

With Past Will’s face now clean, Past Hannibal begin to draw his hand away, only to have his wrist grabbed and held in place.

“Don’t go, Hannibal,” Past Will whispers sadly, a fresh wave of sobs coming over him. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. Just don’t leave me like this, _please_.”

He continues to ramble and beg with the man leaning over him with worried eyes, reducing himself to a state of what can only be described as hysteria.

Past Hannibal hushes Past Will, wiping away the tears with his thumb. “I’m not leaving you, Will,” he whispers, as if he is uttering a dark secret. “Never in a million years.”

Past Will looks up at him with wet, pleading eyes. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

Past Will lets out a sigh of relief and grabs at Past Hannibal’s arms weakly. Accepting the silent invitation, Past Hannibal lies down behind Past Will, back and chest pressed together like glue. But the tears persist from the younger man, and Past Hannibal resorts to whispering sweet nothings into his ear to try and calm him down. Eventually it works. Will begins to fall asleep and Hannibal tucks his head in behind Will’s shoulder.

But the whispering doesn’t cease.

Will stands there and listens to Past Hannibal utter sentences into his sleeping companion’s skin, some in English and others in a language Will cannot understand. The sentiments are scrambled, but the themes are simple—he speaks of sacrifice, promises, and their future. He speaks of how he doesn’t blame Will for throwing them off the bluff, saying he would have accepted that fate with open arms. He speaks of the house awaiting them in South America, and how he just needs to get them better before they can go there and settle down.

And finally, with one final breath before falling asleep, he speaks of the truth. 

Will listens to Past Hannibal’s final words—four softly spoken words—and his blood begins to run cold as they leave his mouth. Before he can react, he faints again.

**»»————————————««**

Will wakes up and he instantly starts gasping for breath. This time, unlike this morning, he knows exactly where he is and what awaits him. He is back in the same bed he spent two weeks in, and where he came-to only hours before. Apparently, after his fainting spell, and despite Will's hissy fit, Hannibal carried him back to bed. 

Speaking of the devil.

Hannibal is sitting at his bedside. The two men look curiously at each other.

Hannibal speaks first. “I must insist you stop doing that,” he says in a quiet, monotone voice.

For the first time in what feels like years, Will breaks out into a fit of laughter. Hannibal looks confused for a moment, but an amused chuckle escapes his lips soon after. Will is surprised to find Hannibal still refusing to meet his eyes, choosing instead to smile into his lap. He appears—dare Will believe it—bashful. It’s a foreign sight, but it fills Will with hope.

This episode is short. Hannibal begins to stand up and walk towards the door.

“Where are you going?” Will nearly shouts at him.

Hannibal turns around a fraction, standing only a few steps away from the door. “The guest room.”

“Don’t,” Will says quickly but softly, before his brain can stop him. “Stay here.”

Hannibal looks giddy, but he keeps his composure. He swiftly crosses the room and slides into bed next to Will, turning out the bedside lamp before lying down. He keeps his respective distance, which isn’t hard considering the mattress is massive.

They stare at the ceiling, which can barely be seen due to the darkness, but they pretend otherwise.

“Goodnight Doctor Lecter.”

“Goodnight Will.”

Hannibal falls asleep first, his breathing becoming even after a few minutes or so. Apparently being Will’s caregiver is a tiring job, to say the least. Will, on the other hand, has too much on his mind to even think about sleeping. The scene on the boat overtakes his mind, as much as he tries to think of anything else.

His narrative regarding Hannibal was so clear, so cut and dry. Not anymore.

Abigail appears in the doorway, also wearing her pyjamas. She comes over to the bed.

“Scoot over.”

Will does so without a word.

And that is how the day ends. Hannibal snoring on one side of the bed, blissfully ignorant of what craziness is going on around him. Abigail resting her eyes on the opposite side of the bed, her presence a silent peace offering. And finally, Will in the middle of the bed, sandwiched between his past and his future, his madness and his sanity. Who is who, you might ask? He has no idea.

Will successfully thinks himself to exhaustion, and eventually he begins to fall asleep. Past Hannibal’s final words to his past self on the boat sing him to sleep, his blood no longer cold, his heart no longer pounding in his chest. 

_I love you, Will._

“It’s beautiful,” he whispers to a silent room before falling asleep, the darkness nodding its head in approval. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and criticisms are more than welcome! :-) 
> 
> Chapter Two coming as soon as can be expected from a very stressed Criminology/Classics major (which is hopefully soon, but who’s to say?)


End file.
